


Indigo Ink

by yomori



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fluff, Harry Potter AU, Hogwarts AU, Hufflepuff!Marco, Love Letters, M/M, Slytherin!Jean, i don't know anything about hp but this was a cute idea ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 07:25:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7748578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yomori/pseuds/yomori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco receives an unmarked letter one afternoon and longs to know who wrote him so sentimentally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indigo Ink

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! i've written a bunch of things for the snk fandom before but i've never posted anything online or to ao3 before, so be nice to me! :-) let me know if you like! tysm!

A soft, cardstock scroll about the length from Marco’s middle finger to the far edge of his palm sat in the Hufflepuff common room, waiting for him. Wrapped around what was thin enough to be a single pen, it was curled up and tied together by a magnificent ribbon. The shiny satin was yellow, and it sort of reminded him of his House, when he came around to getting to see it set on top of one of the light-colored, oak tables that decorated their common room. 

At the edge of the crafty-cut piece of lemon drop ribbon was his name, Marco, written in black, like it had been addressed to him. He asked around only to configure that none of the other boys of the House knew where it had came from, but they’d somehow all knew that it was in fact Marco’s scroll to open and read. 

He took another glance at the rolled-up piece of paper, warm from the sun it has been sitting underneath, and he wonders momentarily how long it’s been perched up just like this. He supposes it doesn’t really matter how long, but if it’s urgent, he takes that back completely. Then again, if it was urgent to be read, someone would simply send something directly to him via owl, so he’s overthinking. 

Though, he sort of doesn’t want to pull the bow of the ribbon, just because the presentation is so nice. It’s like the slice of cake his mother used to always make him on his birthday; Strawberries placed in the cream so carefully, in between every layer of sponge cake to topple over the dessert completely. He doesn’t want to ruin the effort that was put into this, but he knew if he thought like that, he’d never truly get to know what was waiting for him. 

So, in the end, he’d sat down at the table the scroll was placed at, and opened it as intended. He sets the yellow ribbon, only slightly crinkled at the loops, to the side. He’s careful about unrolling the timid curls of paper, that even give off a pine needle scent, as if descended right from the Forbidden Forest; he wasn’t afraid of the Forbidden Forest, damn the rules and rumors, so being afraid of being jinxed, or cursed by such a thing wasn’t so much of an issue. 

To his surprise, the ink on the inside isn’t obsidian black as his name is printed on the ribbon and instead a dark blue color. The font of this letter is less blocky than his name, too, and in replacement a thin, cursive kind. 

The first thing that flashed through Marco’s mind without even having to read through it was, Wow, that’s some handwriting. Neat. Pretty. 

Then he watches as he’s looking for something, but nothing seems to be there. No oracle, no magical words… He gets to actual reading in a moment.

He spots his name easily at the top of the page, and he’s thankful that the ink didn’t melt, or spill as it awaited him in the warm sun of spring.

 

His eyes are drawn to the way the letters are rounded and curved whenever they’re needed, like the loop under P’s, or the smooth transitions from S’s or G’s to any other mark. The whole page is marked up like this, but the readings itself are really rather short. 

There’s a few simple sentences of introduction in the blue ink, slight dots of where there was hesitation of what came next. They were dried, but the indication made Marco grin softly as he read on. The writer was nervous. He wonders why. They seem fond of him. 

Then, there was a poem. It’s one that any Muggle would recognize. It isn’t technically a poem, but the writing is written in stanzas, almost like lyrics. They are lyrics. You are my Sunshine, he realizes. 

They’re written in tiny, still-cursive letters all the way down the page. After the chorus was written, that was it. No more, no less, nothing in between. 

There was an ending, though, and that made the Hufflepuff who was reading it happy, to know that there was at least a signature at the bottom edges, even if it wasn’t an exact name. It read, Love, Someone who just can’t seem to get enough Sunshine. 

There was a doodle, still in the pinprick of the hue that had been used all over the old paper of a daisy next to the signature, and he wondered (again) if the author knew that daisies were his favorite flower, or if the flower just happened to correspond with the color of the ribbon. 

Either way, he ends up tenderly rolling the scroll back up, and reattaching the yellow ribbon to it in a mock-mimic way of the original. His name, Marco, doesn’t end up in the same spot as it did before, long legs of satin instead of short, cute ones, but that was okay. It was the thought that count. And, all he had to think of that, is that this secret admirer someone put a lot of thought into him. 

Before he left the common room to escape to the bunks, he had one last thought. Did he know this someone? Or, were they just some giddy underclassmen he had no idea about? Now that he had the thought in his head… He hoped the former. 

 

It wasn’t until the next week that he’d had an idea about the apparent love letter he’d gotten from his secret admirer; He’d been carrying it around it his messenger bag throughout the week while he thought, as he was sort of fond of it, really. To think that someone cared enough about him to write him a note hinting at their affections, but shy enough to not leave a name because they were scared of what he might think (or so he assumes)... Marco really liked that, even if it meant not knowing the author for right now. 

But, it had him thinking. And, it wasn’t until he was in the Hogwarts Library the following Tuesday that he’d thought of something mentionable. 

It wasn’t that he wanted to intrude on his letter, or embarrass whoever had written it to him… He just wanted to know. Who was it that admired him as much as what was shown? He was curious. 

He could perform a spell, to make whatever was hiding from him appear again. Aparecium, duh, why hadn’t he thought of that before?

The Hufflepuff looked around a little bit at the small cliques in the library, all huddled over at splayed tables, with extra chairs (study group, perhaps?), and the few scattered people and persons standing at what seemed endless shelving of books, before pulling his wand from his bag. With that came his preserved scroll that he held dearly so far into the week, and thought again, blinking out at the table below him. 

He thought about the spell, and what he remembers of it from Charms class. He can see the spell in his mind and how to master enough magic to make it work along the edges of the love-ridden piece of cardstock. He just has to cast it now, he guesses. It shouldn’t be that hard, really. 

His eyes shutter across the library once more just to make sure no one is paying attention, and no one is, and he supposes now is the best time to do anything. 

He tries, with the correct flick of his wrist and everything, and the mumble of the word that triggers the magic, but it’s not enough; nothing happens. 

He tries again, but this time, he tries to say Aparecium a little clearer, and exaggerate the way his wand moves. 

Nothing happens again, and this time… This time, Marco is a little confused. Why isn’t the charm working? Is it because of his words, or the way the wand is moving? Is it his wand itself? Is his wand broken? Is there a spell barrier in the library?

It only takes a moment for him to conclude it isn’t because of the last. Eren casted Oppugno here not too long ago, and it had caused a pause of havoc with every book that wasn’t restricted from students within the room. Literally. That’s all that Marco has to say about that one. 

He sets his wand down beside the scroll then, in favor of his cell phone instead. Technically, cell phones are Muggle technology, and that’s not really necessary here, but since he and Jean at least share that in common, it’s not very surprising that he has one, too. 

He texts him on his iPhone 4s. It’s sort of cool, because he doesn’t need to worry about it getting damaged, because Jean spelled it with an anti-injury incantation. Not cool, because it’s one of the oldest models Apple has manufactured and he has yet to upgrade. 

Jean’s really good at things like that, with his wand. He could get a little help. 

He’s always admired Jean for the way he is with magic. It sounds cliché, but whenever he’s performing, it’s like he and his wand are one. His words and posture are almost perfect, and he can always crack the codes, no matter what the dilemma is. 

He’d say that he aspires to be like Jean with his own magic someday, but… Well, is it selfish to say that if he learned to control his magic just like him, he wouldn’t have to ask the other for extra help anymore, and he wouldn’t get to see the tiny flicker in his eyes when the spells work, and he likes that? He doesn’t know. 

Want to help me with a spell? He types easily before he sends the message. It doesn’t take Jean very long to respond, a minute or so. 

Sure, yeah. Where are you? He responds with, and so Marco respond to that with the corresponding, Library, back corner, behind study groups. 

He doesn’t get a response from Jean in the next few seconds, so he figures it’s safe to assume he’s coming down from wherever he is to help him. He waits, and it takes awhile, but as he hears a shift at the entrance of the wideset room. Then, he perks up, seeing that it is Jean who's walking into the library. 

Jean waves in his direction, over the crowds of bobbleheads. It only takes a moment longer before he’s pulling out a chair to sit across from Marco with a grin. “Not studying with those Ravenclaws over there?” he greets him with. 

“No,” Marco shakes his head a little, to just return the smile across the table, joking. “You should know better than anyone Houses don’t mix. Ravenclaws are too smart for me.” 

The Slytherin just snorts through his nose. “Yeah, because I know our clique of friends are only from one House, Creampuff.” 

Jean thinks that nickname for the entire Hufflepuff House is funny. “It is, though! It’s so true!” Third Year Jean told him, “You and the rest of the House are just fluff in between two pastry cakes! You’re too friendly! Admit it!”   
It’s been a nickname ever since. 

Marco just rolls his eyes and smiles a bit wider than he is already. “Yeah, yeah,” he agrees, “Anyways, I need help with this spell. Like I said.”

Jean nods then, willing to listen. It’s the reason he wanted to see him, after all. “Which spell?” he looks around at the table below them, spotting out a scroll, Marco’s wand, and a ribbon. He doesn’t put anything together. Not yet. 

“Aparecium,” he supplies him with. The other just seems to crinkle his eyebrows a little closer together in slight confusion. “What are you trying to reveal?” Jean asks, and as if on cue, Marco’s smile gets a little more… Sheepish? Shy?

“Well,” he starts, his hands on his lap, curling his fingers into his palms, “I got this… Love letter, I guess, and I wanted to know if Aparecium could reveal the secret admirer. It’s got this, I dunno, this feeling to it,” he explains, seeming less phased by this than Jean would’ve expected. “I mean… Probably not, because it doesn’t look like they used invisible ink or anything, it’s just… You know. I’m wondering if maybe the spell reveals hidden messages, and not just ink.”

Jean’s face is undertoned with pink, however, and he’s piecing everything together: the canary yellow silk, the elder paper, Marco’s obliviousness. And, out of all people, he had to get his help? If he wasn’t careful, he could get caught. Damn it all. 

“How did you hold your wand when you casted the first time around? It shouldn’t be that hard,” he responds, and his eyes glance up to his friend’s fuller, browner ones. 

“I know it shouldn’t,” Marco says, and he’s picking up his wand. He has a gentle grip on it, but it’s not an awful too much; just enough. “I was holding it like this. Nothing weird.” 

“Try again.” 

Marco’s eyes drag down to the scroll again, and he goes ahead and tries. Not surprisingly, nothing happens, and he lets out a sigh. “Why isn't it working? It should work,” he says, and he's right, it should. “Right? I mean, it's a pretty basic spell.” 

“Maybe there's just nothing to show,” Jean supposes, and he hopes that he's right. He didn't write anything in invisible ink, but if Marco's thought is right, and there is a way it would reveal it was him who wrote the love letter, he wants to avoid that at all costs. That would just be too embarrassing. 

“Could you try for me?” He asks, almost handing off his wand to him. Then, he remembers that Jean has his own, and that his wand probably wouldn't work the same. 

Perhaps it's because Jean’s wand is made from Dragon Heartstring that is meant for power, and that's why he's so good at magic, but he doubts it. He thinks that Jean is good at magic just because. 

“Please?” He adds to the end, and… Damn, he always has this little sparkle to his eyes that can get Jean to do whatever he wants. This is stupid. 

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees, with a tug of a nod. He doesn't know why he's getting nervous again, but he swallows as he brings out his wand from the pocket of his robe. 

He glances to Marco, just to see if he's watching and he is, and then he breathes. He then waves his wand just right, like always, and says, “Aparecium!” 

The page is stretched out with his fingertips, and he watches the scroll instead of Marco, who, by the way, isn't looking the same way. He's looking at him. Why is he looking at him? 

He isn't even aware he's holding his breath until he lets it all out in a gasp. 

As if out of nowhere, he sees ink bleed at the bottom of the page. It makes a stritch-scratch noise against the stationary of the letters. The dark hue mends into a sharp arrow in his direction. 

Jean blinks, and he’s opted to shift his wand onto the table with Marco’s when he turns the page slightly, so maybe the mark won’t point directly to him. He of course forgets that this is magic, and the arrow only follows him. 

He sighs, and then figures if he can’t get himself out of his dilemma now, he may as well slide the scroll back to Marco, so he does. 

Marco’s eyes haven’t torn off the page quite yet, but they follow the arrow that is the only difference between then and now. He blinks, and then places his hands over the note, and twists and turns it for the arrow only to follow the Slytherin sitting across him him. 

At first he doesn’t understand, but then he does, and his eyes are drawn to Jean again, like they’re seeing him in a whole new light. 

A rosier, pinker light. Things click together, and then he's grinning lightly. 

The words eventually leak from Marco’s lips to Jean’s disgrace. “Did you write this letter to me, Jean?” he asks, hopeful. 

The other just shifts his eyes away in embarrassment he’s surprised isn’t making his face (or his whole body, if he was honest) flush up, and redden. “What if I did?” he asks back. 

Marco just smiles, and shrugs. “If you did,” he says, looking at the way Jean’s eyes almost seemed like they wanted to flicker over, “I’d feel a lot better knowing it was you, and not some poor, underclassmen girl I wouldn't even know.” 

“Yeah?” he prompts. 

“Yeah. I like it,” the Hufflepuff says in response, taking the scroll then and carefully rolls it back into the hollow cylinder shape, wrapping the yellow ribbon, tying it off into it’s appealing little bow. “The letter. It was very sweet. A little sappy.” 

“I really don’t mind if you did,” he adds after a moment of nothing, the sounds of the other, younger students studying across the library crashing over everything else. “I really hope that you did. I wouldn’t complain if it was. I’d like it if it was,” he tries again, and must’ve been successful, because Jean is looking over to him, now, looking a little… Stuffed. 

“You would?” Jean asks, stupidly. 

“Yes, Jean, I would.” 

He pauses then, his lips parted as if to say something else stupid, but he closes his mouth, and just sighs. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m a little surprised.” 

“A little dense is what you are,” Marco said, not helping the chuckle that adorned the air not a moment later. 

“What?” The Slytherin scrunched his eyebrows, a bit more… Confused, than embarrassed. Did Marco know the whole time?

“I've liked you for awhile, now. I was wondering whether you caught on, but I guess you're just dense, and need the entire sentence spelled out for you,” he said. “But, I didn't spell. You did, actually.” 

Jean found that comment funny out of Marco’s mouth. “Yeah, alright, okay,” he stalled momentarily, playing with the hem of his sleeve. “You caught me red-handed.” 

“More like indigo.” 

“More like,” he started again with a chuckle, moving his sights to link their eyes to see one another, “More like indigo,” he nodded, agreeing, then repeating. “More like indigo. It’s your favorite color, isn’t it?”

Marco beamed. “So you noticed.” 

“I’ve only known you since we were eleven, yeah.” 

“Is this awkward?” 

“What?”

“This,” the Hufflepuff vaguely gestured between the both of them. “You aren’t as… Blushy as I thought you were going to be.” 

“Well, you know snakes,” Jean supplied amused, “Cold blooded, and all.” 

“I mean, yeah,” Marco nodded, glancing around the library; at the shelves that harbored and homed this wide study area, with the group of Ravenclaws studying all huddled together (but he swore he heard whispering and louder murmurs). “But, are you going to actually do something about it? Like, are you going to ask me out?” 

“Uh, well,” he paused, “I didn’t really think I’d get this far. I guess I should, shouldn’t I?” 

“Well, maybe you should,” Marco responded, but now he was getting up with the very scroll he knew was from Jean, with love. “But, I’m actually busy with studying, like, from now to forever.” 

“Seriously?” Jean’s lips gaped, his first instinct being to buck up from his chair underneath the table, creating a rather ugly noise of scuffing: wood on wood. It made some of the students turn their heads. 

“No,” Marco answered quickly, his smile natural as ever, slipping his wand back into his khaki pocket. “But, you should’ve seen your face just then. It was hilarious; it was like this,” he said, and twisted his face into something comical. 

Jean couldn’t help his bubble of laughter, and stumbled upright to push in the heavy oak chair, and caught up with the other who was a few steps away, turning the corner from a bookcase. Marco was obviously playing hard to get. 

Then Jean came around, and punched him in the shoulder blade, his fist soft. His next move was to wrap his arm loosely around the opposite shoulder. This was comfortable. 

“Hey, you ass,” Jean said playfully, sure to keep up with Marco as he walked closer to the wide open doors that would lead them into the corridor. He could see Marco smiling, with his stupid dimples. “You forgot to stay for the part where I ask you to do something with me, and I slyly make it a date.” 

“Yeah? When was that?” 

“Well, in that split second you caught me off-guard, I was thinking,” he paused, twirling them both on the toes of his shoes back into the library, “That you could help me study Herbology for N.E.W.T’s. You know I suck at things like that.” 

“Which apparently is why you passed your Herbology O.W.L. with flying colors,” Marco responded back, rolling his eyes, jokingly. 

“Only because you helped me study, really,” Jean said, trying to convince him as part of the playing along. 

Marco hummed for a long moment, then sighed rather dramatically, stopping his step next to the clique of underclassmen Ravenclaws who must’ve been engraving O.W.L study habits for their own exams, come June. 

He leaned the smallest fraction of closer to Jean, and he gratefully took it. “Fine,” he sounded defeated, but was glad that they could joke with each other and be friends, and maybe a little more, “But you totally owe me a Butterbeer.” 

“One Butterbeer for a study session with my favorite person?” Jean smiled, letting his thin lips stretch into something that Marco could only describe as happy, “Done deal.”


End file.
